


Noctiphobia (The Road Hum Remix)

by keysmash



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kamikazeremix, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keysmash/pseuds/keysmash





	Noctiphobia (The Road Hum Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beware of Night](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1569) by joans23. 



Sam's arm started aching in the car, a low pulsing pain. He'd brought the icepack from Bobby's, but Dean's was slowly thawing out in the footwell, and Sam had dropped his own soon after Dean stopped using his.

He didn't remember taking his fists to Dean's face, and he didn't know why Meg hadn't shown him that. She made him watch what she did to Wandell, and what she did to Jo, but he hadn't seen anything at Bobby's house. The last thing he saw was driving through the night, just like he and Dean were now.

He'd almost yanked control back, when she shot Dean and then walked away from him, and she was more careful after that. Sam remembered Dad doing the same thing in the cabin, when the yellow-eyed demon went after Dean. Maybe he was their sore spot; maybe the idea of Dean in pain gave them the boost they hadn't found on their own, to take back their bodies. Maybe Meg thought he could control himself, if the alternative was beating Dean to a swollen, bloody death, and she hadn't taken the chance.

Or maybe there hadn't been anything to it, and he was over-thinking. That was all he could do recently, when he'd been able to do anything, and now it'd become a habit.

Dean shifted his jaw from side to side every few minutes. Sam's knuckles hurt as well, and he tried not to rub them.

He looked out the window, at the smooth darkness beyond. She'd shown him going through the house with Dean, and what an awful job she did at cleaning up after herself. She'd laughed at Sam as she saw more than one wire leading away from the security camera. Had the system downloaded to more than one computer? Had someone else seen it?

There wasn't much they could do about it now. Sam looked at Dean and caught him carefully rolling his left shoulder, and then turned back to the window. He didn't need to pile anything else on Dean, not tonight.

Dean drove for hours without pulling over, but he cracked after midnight, turning into a rest stop. The floodlights were on, shining on the row of trucks at the edge of the parking lot, over the vending machines lining the unstaffed information center, and into the cracks between the doors to the bathrooms. There wasn't anyone else around, but Dean stood next to his door and waited for Sam, so he could lock up.

They walked to the bathroom together, and Sam faltered before going inside — she'd gotten him while he was taking a leak, with his hand on his cock and his eyes closed. He double-checked the pendant from Bobby, and then Dean huffed and walked around him, going in.

He hadn't been with Dean, when Meg possessed him; they didn't usually piss together or anything. Sam paused for a moment longer and then followed him.

He was already drying his hands by the time Sam zipped up and started washing his, and Dean came back to the mirror after the dryer kicked off, prodding at his face. Sam watched, keeping his hands in front of the faucet's motion sensor so the water kept running. The swelling had gone down some, but Dean touched his cheek, his eyebrow, his jawline, and then dropped his hand to his shoulder, to the wound Sam hadn't actually seen.

"How's it doing?" he asked.

"Tickles." He rolled his eyes at Sam's reflection. "How do you think it's going?"

"Sorry," Sam said. He frowned but he didn't look away from the mirror, not even to glance at Dean next to him in the flesh, when Dean shrugged out of one sleeve of his jacket and button-down, and then carefully took his undershirt partially off, exposing a red-stained bandage. He touched the gauze with one finger, but Sam was the one who hissed between his teeth.

He'd felt the kick of the gun, as Meg shot, and he'd stared down into the water when she did, but she'd shoved him out of consciousness after that, before he could manage to dive in after Dean. He hadn't seen the wound at all.

"You patch that up one-handed?" he asked.

Dean looked at Sam's reflection again. "Jo did it for me," he said after a moment, then he started peeling the tape up. "Better job than I thought she'd do."

"So why are you taking it off?" Sam turned to watch. The gauze looked soft and white where Dean hadn't bled through it, but the side closest to his body was red and shining. The wound itself was clean enough, good shooting followed by a good patch-up, but Sam still swallowed hard as he turned his entire body to face Dean, and the hole Sam had put in him.

"Can I?" he asked, even as he settled his still-damp fingertips on Dean's shoulder. Dean nodded. Sam could feel his gaze on his face, but he didn't look back at Dean. He moved carefully, grazing his fingers over Dean's skin.

Jo had done a damn good job, probably while fighting Dean about it the entire time. The bullet hole was mostly scabbed over, and she must have picked the fabric fibers out first, the same way Sam remembered doing in Rockford, after blasting Dean with rock salt in that asylum. He remembered standing in the bathroom with tweezers in one hand while Dean leaned shirtless against the counter, and he had been so grateful Dean hadn't given him a loaded gun, that Sam hadn't done more than send salt and shirt into Dean's chest. He pressed his fingertips as close to this wound as he thought Dean would let him, the skin warm but not too hot, and he remembered that almost knee-buckling relief: he hadn't shot his brother in the head, he wasn't left to find their father alone.

It was worse now, and better. There wasn't anyone left for him anymore, if something happened to Dean.

Sam replaced the bandage, smoothing the tape over the clean edges of the gauze and onto Dean's skin. Dean looked away from Sam and put his shirts back on, further covering the injury under Dean's brown tee shirt, and then the button-down he wore over that. He'd probably put Dad's coat on later, if it got colder that night, and in any case, they'd be in the car then. Dean would be as bundled up, safe as he was likely to get around Sam.

"Dean." He wasn't sure where he was going and he looked Dean in the face, trying to figure out how to continue. Dean was wide-eyed, a little pale, and he leaned up and kissed Sam before Sam could say anything else.

They didn't touch anywhere besides on the mouth, and he pulled away before Sam could really react. He blinked at Dean, stepping neither away nor back, but Dean's eyes widened further. He cursed under his breath, muttering, "Shit," like he'd stepped barefoot onto something sharp, and then left the room, hitting Sam with his good shoulder on the way.

Sam looked behind himself, watching the grey door swing closed over the grey floor, and then turned to the mirror. He raised his eyebrows at himself and touched his lips, then shook his head and followed Dean. He had not seen that one coming.

He found Dean counting change in front of the vending machines. He didn't look at Sam, but then he'd be able to hear him coming. They were the only ones out now, and with the charms hanging on the outside of their clothes, it really was only them.

Sam bought a Mountain Dew while Dean went back and forth over the candy bars, and then they swapped machines. Dean was studiously not meeting Sam's gaze, not even looking his way, and his cheeks were pink now. Sam guessed that was better than being pale, the shade of blood loss and shock, but he looked at Dean longer than he thought he should, watching the flush slowly fade.

Dean was blushing, Dean had kissed him, and Sam's day had been weird enough that neither of those things stood out as the most noteworthy. He shook his head again.

Dean passed the keys over without an argument, and then leaned against the window while he opened his Twix, and while Sam got them back on the freeway. They weren't going anywhere specific. This stretch of road, with flat land on either side, and oncoming headlights growing from a single pinprick in the distance to huge bright flashes as they passed, could have been part of a thousand different roads Sam had traveled. The tape deck, playing one of Dean's homemade Zeppelin mixes, went from _Kashmir_ to _Immigrant Song_ to _Ramble On_ without either of them speaking.

Every time Sam thought, _Dean kissed me, and that's sort of messed up_ , his brain drowned it out with, _I shot Dean while possessed by a demon and had to leave him for dead_ , and it was hard for anything else to really compare to that.

He could see Dean looking at him, though, in the tiny bursts of light that filled the car whenever they passed another car. Sam chewed on his lip and tried to think. It was tiring, just more of the same: he was sick to death of only thinking.

Dean finished his Twix, and his Pepsi. Sam ate his Milky Way and drank most of his Mountain Dew, leaving some for later. They drove past twenty-seven mile markers. The tape stopped, but neither of them turned it over. They just drove, Dean watching Sam more and more often as the road unfolded, a few hundred feet at a time. Sam rolled his shoulders and stretched his legs out as best he could. They'd go straight on til morning, at this rate, locked up together. His arm hurt, the overlapping burns starting to throb in earnest as Bobby's pills wore off, and he was stiff. His jaw was tender where Dean had hit him, and he bet Dean's face matched the pain in his hand, where Meg had smashed the two of them together.

Dean took a breath, like he was getting ready to say something, but when Sam glanced over, Dean snapped his mouth shut and looked away. Sam sucked at the inside of his cheek, fighting a grin, but Dean did it again, a mile later, and then again, three miles after that. He was sitting up straight, not relaxing into the seats like usual, and Sam realized at some point, in between the things Dean was trying and failing to say, that he'd stopped glancing over. He was staring out the windshield, and Sam was doing the same thing. They'd seen this before.

The next time Dean started to speak but didn't do anything other than hold and release a breath, Sam pulled over to the side of the road. Dean turned to look at Sam as he put it in park.

"Look, Sammy," he said, and then started talking faster when Sam unbuckled. "Shit, man, don't get out of the fucking car, I'm sorry, alright? It was —"

Sam shook his head a little, and so Dean was quiet, clenching his jaw, when Sam leaned across the seat and kissed him.

He didn't know what he was doing, really, whether he was returning the favor or just giving Dean a way out of the conversation. Maybe Dean's lapse in judgment had been communicable, and he'd passed it on the last time they kissed, so that this seemed almost normal to Sam now, no big deal.

But Dean surged forward at him, straining against the seat belt to meet Sam below the rearview mirror. He slid his hands into Sam's hair, holding him securely in place, and gasped against Sam's mouth before sucking at his lips. It was almost sloppy, not what Sam would have expected from Dean's careful ladies-man persona, but it wasn't bad. It wasn't anywhere as weird as Sam would have expected, if he'd ever gone so far as to think about this. It wasn't bad at all. At the end of the day, kissing someone he cared about, another person he thought he'd lost forever, was pretty damn nice.

They sat twisted together for a moment. Their breathing was loud in the quiet of the parked car, and then Dean fumbled out of his seatbelt. He took both hands off of Sam to shrug the belt off his chest, and then braced his hands on either side of Sam's shoulders. He levered himself up and into Sam's lap, pressing their foreheads together. When Sam focused on his face, as best he could by the glow of the dashboard, he saw Dean's eyes were closed.

Sam had gone a week without getting himself off, which wasn't normal no matter how many jokes Dean made about monasteries, and it didn't take much now — Dean, heavy and warm in his lap, sucking at his lips, was more than enough to get him hard. He settled his hands on Dean's hips and tugged him further down. Dean didn't flinch or pull away, and the thick line of his dick pressed against Sam's belly, through their clothes. He rolled his hips smoothly, letting Sam rub his cock against his ass, and Sam arched into him.

He slid one hand beneath Dean's shirts and kissed Dean harder as he pushed his hand up, over Dean's belly and onto his chest. He rubbed his fingers over Dean's left nipple, when he found it. Dean shivered on top of him, but that wasn't what Sam was aiming for. He pressed his hand to Dean's pec, with his fingertips brushing the bottom edge of the bandage, and his palm flat over the beat of Dean's heart. This was what he wanted, this proof of life under his hand. Having Dean's cock rubbing insistently against him, Dean's breath panted into his mouth, only made it better. It calmed Sam down even while it wound him up further.

They came in their pants: Dean first, without letting go of either Sam's hair or Sam's mouth, and then Sam, grinding up against the solid comfort of Dean in his lap. Dean kept kissing him while he was trying to catch his breath, sucking at Sam's bottom lip and combing his hands through his hair. Sam could feel his heartbeat steadying, his breathing slowing, and he couldn't help wondering if Dean was kissing him now because he wanted to, or because he was trying to put off whatever convoluted conversation should probably follow something like this. It was a combination of both, for Sam, and he thought it would be the same for Dean.

Dean turned his face away eventually, but Sam held onto him, not letting him clamber out of his lap. Dean laughed humorlessly, and dropped his forehead to Sam's shoulder. His heart rate was kicking up again. Sam considered tucking Dean's head under his chin, but somehow didn't think that would go over very well. Instead, he thumbed at Dean's nipple again as he pulled his hand out of Dean's shirt. The hem scraped over his burns, making him hiss, and Dean pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, even through his deep blush.

"Christ, Sammy," he said, and looked away again. "I don't know —"

Sam shook his head. "If you apologize, I swear, I'm going to hit you."

"I wasn't," Dean said, but glanced back. "I just — really?"

"This was the only good thing to happen to me today," Sam said. "Besides getting unpossessed, and that involves a crappy set-up in the first place. So yeah, really."

"Huh." Dean glanced over Sam's shoulder, eyes slipping out of focus for a moment, and then looked back to him, cocky smile firmly in place. "Good, then," he said, and kissed Sam, just a fast and dirty brush of their lips, before climbing back to his own side of the seat. "Find us someplace to stay the night, why don't you? I need to not be wearing these boxers anymore."

Sam rolled his eyes, but his own underwear was pretty gross, too, if he thought about it. He put the car back in gear and got moving again, just him and Dean in the darkness.


End file.
